


when I'm fucked up, that's the real me

by scorpiod



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bruises, Choking, Codependency, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Established Relationship, Frottage, Jealousy, M/M, Marking, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Post-Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest, Vampire Bites, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: Seth isn't jealous. That's just ridiculous. Why would he be jealous of the people Richie takes to his back room to eat?





	when I'm fucked up, that's the real me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opheliahyde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliahyde/gifts).



Seth is waiting for Richie at his own bar, the one he inherited when Santanico killed Malvado, and he can already feel his own sense of peace and tranquility start to come apart, the act of waiting and being kept waiting just feeding the thrumming energy under his veins. 

Seth eyes the door behind him, the private room with no windows, that no one else seems to notice or care. The room where Richie takes back all of his prey to devour, where Freddie brings back some tied up con, some poor asshole already doing their time. Someone off the street, or someone Freddie brings to Richie, those are the options. He tries not to think about it, but his mind dances with images of Richie seducing some poor unsuspecting sucker, only to bury his fangs in their throat. Richie as Dracula flashes in his head, cape and stupid plastic teeth and all, even though Seth knows he always wears the same suit when he comes here.

He orders a whiskey, well on his way to getting shit faced, even though he's supposed to be all business. He finishes off his beer that he ordered previously, his fingers wrapped around the edge of the bottle as a sudden, shaking rage comes over him, like any minute now, he's going to smash this against someone's face. 

It's that sort of night. 

He's not usually like this. Really. Not this kind of angry drunk, but the warmth of the alcohol just adds to the growing storm inside him, the sick churning feeling in his guts. 

Then Richie turns up, sits besides him, coming out of fucking nowhere. 

“Make some noise when you walk, Jesus,” Seth says, letting out a breath. 

Richie doesn't say anything. Doesn't even look at Seth; the bartender brings him a full bottle of whiskey from the back without a word, Richie mumbling his thanks. That's _Seth's_ bottle of whiskey, but Richie doesn't notice or care, or what's his is Richie's too (just as it's always been), but he takes a long swing of it before setting it down in front of Seth. 

There is blood under his nails. If Seth closes his eyes, he can pretend it's not a big deal. Have many fights have they gotten into? How many people has Seth beaten down for disrespecting him, disrespecting Richie? He's lost count. They've always been covered in blood. That's just the life of a Gecko.

Does it matter if Richie gets his blood by feeding off lowlives in the back room of his bar?

 _It shouldn't but it does_.

“You don't have to be here,” Richie says, not unkindly. 

Richie doesn't want Seth to see what he is; he gets it. Thinks he's doing him a favor. Seth’s hand on the glass bottle relaxes, then squeezes again. He wants to swing at something. Maybe Richie. Wreck that pretty face, it'll heal in seconds. 

“Venganza wants us to collect some wares,” Seth says finally. He takes a sip of the whiskey but he no longer wants it. His mouth feels thick and tastes of cotton. 

“You could have texted me--”

“And yet here I am,” Seth snaps. He glances at Richie. Not a hair out of place. Eyes wide under the glasses, blue and deceptively soft. Suit nice and neat like always. He smells like someone else’s sweat and blood, and something ugly unfurls inside Seth. 

“C’mon,” he says, “let's go _collect_.” The word is sour in his mouth. He gets one last look at Richie before turning around, and can't resist. 

“You missed a spot,” Seth sneers, getting up from the bar, letting Richie flail around as he tries to clean himself up before he realizes Seth was shitting him.

***

Richie's body looks the same but Seth knows it isn't.

“What's under here?” He asks, pawing at his brother’s skin, like if he tries hard enough, he could take it clean off and cover himself with it. 

This is supposed to be a stakeout but Seth has never been good at being patient. That's Richie's job. 

“It's just skin, Seth,” Richie says, a note of annoyance in his voice, trying to focus. 

“Liar,” Seth says, and slides a hand under Richie's button up, feels the soft belly there, the way it moves when Richie takes a breath. Does he even need to breathe anymore? Do the scales go all the way down?

If he tried hard enough, could he find his brother under all the scales and sharp teeth? 

Richie pushes him away, grabs him by the wrists and drags his hands away from his body. His movements are gentle, but it feels like a slap anyway. _Don't touch me_ , it tells Seth. _Get away from me_. 

_You don't get to have all of me anymore._

“We're supposed to be doing a job here, remember?” Richie says.

“Fuck you,” Seth growls, glaring at him. He doesn't know why this is bothering him so much. He hates this culebra shit. 

He turns back to the stakeout. “I hate this goddamn stake out,” Seth says, his voice rough and not all clear. He misses working for themselves. Seth isn't drunk but he feels like he might be, like soon he's gonna do something stupid, something he'll regret. 

_Could he crawl under Richie's skin and get back inside him again?_

***

 

“You don't have to follow me,” Richie says. Seth watches as he gets dressed and ready to go to his bar, suit impeccable and immaculate, because you need to be nicely dressed to eat a guy. Seth leans against the door frame, arms folded across his chest. He doesn't mean to block Richie's way out, but it's not as if Richie can't shove his way past if he really wanted to. They're sharing a room again, but not a bed. 

_Not yet_ , Seth wants to imagine but maybe that's naive of him. After all, he has to grow up sometime, but the thought makes him feel hollow and numb on the inside, like someone excavated him and pulled out his insides: his guts, his ribs, his sinew and bones. The way he felt when he was in prison, just trying to get by.

“You can just stay here,” Richie adds. Richie is doing his tie now. He's always been good at that and Seth's always needed help, always made Richie do his tie for him, only to tug it off mid job because he got sick of it.

“Stay here,” Seth repeats, scoffing nastily, “while you go and fuck around with some guy in your man cave. Sure, I'll be a good boy.” He shrugs his shoulders. Tries not to picture it. Fails. Going to lose his goddamn mind, every time he thinks of Richie sinking his teeth into someone else. “Do you also take lady felons to eat in your creepy back room too? That seems a little ungentlemanly of you. Not a very classy vampire.” 

He thinks of Vanessa, rotting in prison. Sonja, dead at his hand. Even Kate, who may as well be dead at his hand, not that he would ever say that out loud. It's always easier to blame Richie.

Richie has stopped dead in his tracks. He is gaping at him, with the most emotion he's seen on his face in a while, at least since they got back together. He looks like a goofy kid again, for a moment, finding the old Richie in his face instead of this powerful snake vampire. Privately, Seth feels like he's won something. Handsome Gecko: 1, Lesser Gecko: 100.

“It's not a sex thing,” Richie tries to explain. There's a note of disbelief in his voice. His face pinches, twists slightly, nose scrunching. Seth always loves riling him up. “I don't _fuck_ them. I _eat_ them.”

“Same difference,” Seth snarls out. 

Richie, for a moment, doesn't even say anything. He sort of just stares at Seth, and the pulse in Seth’s throat jumps under his gaze. He feels warmth flood him, body temperature spiking like a fever. 

Then his brother laughs, the way he always had. Loud and throaty and a bit silly. 

“Holy shit, Seth, you're actually jealous of the people I eat?”

“Yeah, because all I really want is to be monster food.”

Richie rolls his eyes, still laughing at him, _I can't believe you're so ridiculous_ , but Seth doesn't miss the twitch in his jaw, the way he tightens up his body at the comment. He wants to apologize suddenly-- _you’re not a monster, you're my brother, you know I didn't mean it, not like that_ \--but he doesn't know how. Apologies have always been foreign on his lips. He's never needed to apologize. Richie used to know that. 

( _both are true anyway--monster and brother, not mutually exclusive_ )

Seth used to be able to be gentler, but he's forgotten how. Used to be, being with Richie was as natural as breathing, like he was his own skin, an extra set of limbs, a sharper pair of eyes. 

Now he doesn't know how to be around Richie without fighting him.

***

He's not supposed to be here, Seth knows. Richie left about an hour ago, and Seth followed, right back to the bar, staring at the entrance to the private room.

It's not morbid curiosity, exactly. It's a sickening repulsive desire, an intoxicating urge to self destruct, like going too fast on an icy road, or doing heroin in a sleazy motel in Mexico, allowing anyone to do anything to you. 

Call it morbid curiosity. Call it Seth's need to own every inch of his brother. 

He goes through the door to back private room in Richie’s bar. He's been here before, when it was empty, when Richie was first showing him the place, before he realized it’d be his den to munch on scumbags. It was, at first glance, a nice joint to smoke a cigar and down multiple shots of whiskey scotch, decorated in classy dark greens and warm browns. A single pool table, a private bar with no one behind to man it, a glowing overhead swinging light like a bad cop show. 

In the center, like a stage, a stage for no one except Seth (a thought that made him feel giddy, the flush of alcohol hitting him hard), was a man tied to a chair, arms and legs as useless as they were strapped down, and Richie’s mouth buried in his throat, hands in the man’s hair to tug roughly and pull it aside. 

Richie doesn't notice him right away, so focused on feeding. Maybe he should. Seth can't think. Words freeze in his mouth. His heart quickens (not a sex thing, _my ass_ ). 

He's seen this before--the guy in the trunk a few weeks ago, when they were helping Santanico, Pritchard in the Labyrinth--all quick and violent and vicious, sure. Here, Richie is taking his time, making soft happy noises as he sucks. 

“You think you'd lock the door,” Seth says with a chuckle, trying to cover up a gasp. 

“Jesus, Seth,” Richie snarls at him, a low but fierce sound that would frighten anyone else. 

Seth isn't frightened. Staring Richie is horrifying but it's not fear he feels, something far darker and uglier, hot inside him. Seth's eyes dart back and forth between him and the body. Intricate scales cover Richie's face, eyes with slitted inhuman pupils. Blood smeared all over his mouth and chin. A man with a chunk of flesh torn out of his throat, just gone, as if one big mouth had latched on and ripped it away. He's dead for sure. 

“Close the fucking door,” Richie says and Seth’s brain finally catches up to him, turning around to do so. The moment he does, Richie is on him, shoving him against the wall. Seths back hits with a hard thump, and Richie's hands are tight on his shoulders. Not a painful grip but a vice one. 

Richie's teeth are red, mouth sloppy wet with blood. Richie's teeth are nothing like his steely, glinting knives that he's so good with. This is a different kind of weapon. They're sharp points, they tear and rend, cobra teeth that pop out from behind his normal human teeth. He looks wild and feral even with his clean suit, his movements long, sleek, and graceful. 

“Fuck,” Seth breathes. He's searching for a joke. A way to undercut it. He doesn't have anything. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Richie hisses, so angry, like Seth had no right to be here. Like he intruded on something special and private.

All the sudden, Seth's angry too, even with arousal churning around in his guts and he shoves Richie away, both hands on his chest. To his surprise, Richie stumbles back. 

“I wanted to see what you get up to in here,” he says. “I think you owe me that.”

“ _Owe_ you? You can't actually be _jealous_ \--”

Seth shoves Richie again and Richie continues to let him, taking further steps back. 

“I'm not jealous,” Seth protests, but the words sound pathetic in his mouth. “I'm just tired of you hiding from me.”

He shoves him again, into the pool table now; Seth almost feels like a little kid again, trying to push around his bigger and stronger brother, trying to prove himself, to show his size meant nothing and Richie--

Richie moves too fast for him to see. The chair gets knocked over, clattering, bloody corpse and all, like a bad comedy. The air leaves Seth's lungs for a second like he's been solar plexed in the gut and he's shoved against and down on the pool table, flat on his back, but feet still dangling off the ground, the edges of the table digging into his lower back painfully. Richie holds him down with his body and his hands around his throat, hard enough to hurt, but not quite enough to cut off his airway.

“Okay,” Richie says, “here I am. Happy?

Seth has no answer. His cock is hard. The hand around his throat feels like a brand. Richie's grip is gonna leave marks the next day, dark purplish bruises. Seth takes slow steady breathes and gazes at his brother’s inhuman eyes. 

“No,” Seth spits.

“No one asked you to come,” Richie hisses in his ear. “No one asked you to _stay_.”

“I know you didn't.” Isn't that the whole problem? Richie sending him away to die on a beach with his money, with nothing but a promise of coming to visit years and years later?

“You could have left. This shit bothers you so much but you could have just taken your money and go. Isn't that what you wanted?”

Seth punches Richie in the throat. He's done serious damage with that before to others, but all Richie does is pull away his hands from him. He flinches, as if it really hurt him, his snake features fading away to human. Seth doesn't give him a chance to overthink. Seth doesn't give himself a chance to overthink. He grabs Richie by the lapels and pulls him in, bringing their foreheads together. 

“What I wanted is you, you dipshit,” he hisses angrily. 

_A picture of you and me on the sun drenched beach, Piña Coladas in hand and turning golden under the sunshine. A nice, soft, thirty million dollar retirement they both deserved._

_That's what I wanted._

He kisses Richie then, crashing their lips together and Richie knows what to do know, following some kind of instinctive muscle memory, kissing back hard and biting against Seth's lips. Blood smears all over Seth, across his lips, his face, until his nostrils are filled with the scent of it. Distantly, he's aware this isn't sanitary, but he's always lived dangerously. Consequences were for people who weren't dying young.

Seth can't help but slide his tongue in his mouth, pressing against his fangs. He pricks himself and his own mouth fills with blood until Richie gasps and pulls away like he'd been burned. 

“I'm sorry--” he starts but Seth shakes his head. He's not sorry. He feels a little lightheaded, dizzy, like he's drunk--and of course, he is, three beers down but he wasn't feeling it until now, drunk and dangerous and the best kind of reckless.

Seth swallows his own blood and licks his lips, tasting the sharp coppery iron of someone else. His tongue stings with pain. 

“That your venom?” He asks. 

Immediately Richie shakes his head. 

“I wouldn't do that,” he says softly. He pushes his glasses up. He seems far younger than he actually is. 

Seth nods, and bares his teeth. “Then get back here.”

He doesn't wait for Richie to move. He grabs him and pulls him forward and Richie moves with him. Richie's mouth licks inside his with a desperate fervour that makes Seth moan and want to lose himself. Richie's arms wrap around him and for a minute Seth thinks _that's real cute, how fucking romantic_ before he realizes how tight Richie’s grip is and he's being lifted, picked clean up, and pushed further up on the table, until his legs no longer dangle off, until his body is laid out on it. 

Richie settles on top of him and it's second nature to wrap his legs around his brother’s waist, rub and grind his cock against Richie's, savor the shudder that rolls through Richie’s body and into his own. 

Richie tries to pull away 

“You sure?” Richie asks. 

Seth thinks, _huh, should we stop?_

It's a bit of an alien thought. He's not used to showing restraint with Richie. There's a body cooling on the ground that they both stepped over to get here. Seth's cock twitches at the sight and he realizes it's not much of a far cry to get hard watching Richie kill someone with a knife or gun or his hands for him, than it is with his teeth.

It's past the point for restraint. 

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Richie smirks, blood dripping.

“You might throw out your back, old man.”

“Shut the fuck up, lizard boy,” Seth replies and bites Richie's bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

Richie moans, thick and low as Seth tastes his brother’s blood. With Seth flat on his back, Richie continues to grind his cock against him. Richie's body is a heavy weight, nearly crushing him to the pool table. Seth couldn't get up and push him away if he tried, and something about that turns his crank all the way harder, knowing he's trapped, knowing he can't move too far, at Richie's mercy. 

Seth's hands reach down, fumbling for his own zipper eagerly. He pulls out his dick, cool air against fevered skin only tempered by his fingers, then clumsily tries to get Richie’s cock out as well, to push them both together. It's not easy, with Richie grinding, practically humping him against the table, unaware or uncaring of what Seth is trying to do as his kisses grow messier, but Seth wants to feel Richie’s cock against him. He missed that. He wants to know if Richie will still feel warm and slick and pulsing in his hand. He, in his drunk haze, wants Richie to split him open, here on the pool table, with mouth and cock. 

“It's been too fucking long since you've fucked me,” he gasps out into Richie’s mouth and groans as he finally gets a hand on his cock. Richie is as warm as he always used to be, slick with precome, cold blooded lizard be damned. _Fuck me, fuck me_ , he wants to say and Richie even stops kissing him as if he read his mind, letting him speak. His mouth trails bloody, messy kisses down his jaw, then down to his throat, nuzzling the skin there and licking up his sweat as his thrusts lose their tempo, growing erratic. 

“I want you to--”

Richie bites down on his throat before Seth gets a chance to finish, pain sharp and pleasurable friction on his cock flaring and cresting over. 

Seth comes--orgasm hits him like a mack truck, ripped out almost painfully and sudden and sharply. He spurts all over his hands and Richie’s cock. His brother makes low sucking, pleased noises as he drinks his blood. He comes like that as well, onto his hand, in small waves as Richie moans with it, and continues to feed. 

Seth gasps, thrusting up involuntarily, body spamming against his brother. For a moment, he thinks this might be it, that maybe Richie will drain him too and the thought doesn't bother him as much he thought it would, dizzy and hazy from orgasm. 

Then he pulls away, stumbling back with a cry and cold, harsh reality hits Seth. His body aches, come drying on his hands, his throat throbbing. Seth takes one sharp breath and wipes his hand on the green pool felt. 

“Sorry,” Richie mutters, not sounding very sorry at all. His mouth is still blood stained. There's a sticky trail of drying blood on his jaw. There's blood seeping into the green felt into the table. That shit’s ruined now. 

Richie is also ruined--a perfect imperfect picture, his normally slicked back hair standing up or flopping into his face, glasses askew. Blood smeared across his face, and staining the white of his dress shirt. Ruined. 

Seth wants to ruin everything in this god forsaken room, starting with him.

Richie is watching him, something like horror in his eyes, and Seth feels the old familiar urge to reassure him--cup his face in his hands, press their foreheads together, _it's you and me buddy_.

Seth can't even remember why he was angry. It went through him like a sudden flash flood or a stroke of lightning. 

“Admiring your handiwork?” Seth asks instead. He's smirking but he isn't trying to be mean. 

Richie sighs and steps away, until he dips behind the bar, digging around for something under the bar itself. He pulls out a spare change of clothes out of some hiding spot--clean suit and tie. 

Seth stares with lazy hunger in his eyes as Richie strips down, methodically, then dresses himself up again. He's certainly admiring the mess he made of Richie. He used to be able to get hard right away but now he's gotta wait a while for round two, feeling a little put out Richie didn't fuck him on the pool table. 

“So, that's why you're always clean when you come out of here,” Seth says. 

“It pays to be prepared,” Richie says, pushing his glasses up. “Do you still feel jealous?”

“I'm not jealous,” Seth snaps, glancing at the corpse. He was starting to smell. 

There's a long, quiet pause, Seth waiting for Richie to snap back or mock him in some way.

“Are we doing this again?” Richie asks instead. Straight for the jugular. 

Seth can insult Richie by asking _what do you mean_ , but they're both smarter than that. 

Seth doesn't have an answer. A few weeks ago, he would have said Richie was dead to him. He _did_ say Richie was dead to him. 

When he was a little, he didn't even have a bed. A small cot on the ground. He always crawled into Richie’s bed to sleep with him instead, and then it just stayed that way. He and Richie, breathing the same air, sharing all but the same skin. 

But then Vanessa happened, and then the job Richie refused to do. It all got torn apart. Maybe they weren't even meant to stay together. 

Seth rubs the wound on his throat, pressing down until it hurts. He lets out a soft sigh. 

“We just did, didn't we?” Seth says, then stops, cuts himself off. Seth can't say sorry for anything and he won't, but that doesn't feel right. That's not the answer Richie wanted, but he nods, fixing his tie. Ignoring Seth, he goes towards the cooling body. Seth grabs him by the tie before he reaches down. 

“Bandage me up,” Seth demands, rather than asking. He expects Richie to complain, to tell him to do it himself, but he changes gears immediately, focus redirected to Seth.

“Don't have bandages here,” he says, but he uses alcohol and napkins to disinfect and clean up Seth's throat, Richie working quietly, his fingers nimble and precise. Richie always stitched him up when he was a kid, big wounds and small wounds, neosporin and _Patrón_ , using whatever they had on hand. When they were kids, living with the old man, no one looked out for them but each other.

When Richie finishes, Seth kisses him, softer this time, trying to taste him under the blood and fangs. Richie sighs softly and leans into him, coming closer. For a minute, Seth feels like nothing bad ever broke them apart. 

“I'll help you get rid of the body,” Seth says, pulling away, patting his brother on the back. “Least I can do.”


End file.
